The Valentine Chronicles
by Infinite Stair
Summary: The continuing story of Vincent Valentine, as a Turk. The beginning of the beginning of the end.
1. Episode 1

  
  
  


_ "What's that one's name?"_

_ "Valentine. Vincent Valentine. Been with the Turks for three months."_

_ "Nice and efficient, isn't he?"_

_ "One of the best. Currently en route to Junon for a little terrorist duty."_

_ "I'll keep my eye on him. He might do rather nicely."_

  
  


The Valentine Chronicles

Episode 1 - Cannon City Shakedown

  
  
  


AGENT PROFILE: VINCENT VALENTINE

Rank: Special Agent

Age: 26

Blood Type: A

Height: 6'0"

Weight: 181 lbs

Specialties: Assassination, infiltration, handguns, hand-to-hand combat.

Notes: Shows good leadership potential. Cynical and callous enough for most jobs, but keep him away from anything too dirty for the time being. Has some loose ends that need tying up, i.e. large gaps in his past that need to be filled in.

Status: O.K. for duty.

  


AGENT PROFILE: BUCKINGHAM LEWIS

Rank: Agent

Age: 24

Blood Type: O

Height: 6'3"

Weight: 239 lbs

Specialties: Hand-to-hand combat, demolitions, vehicle piloting, heavy weaponry.

Notes: Better for a subordinate role. Taciturn and deeply religious, can lose control at times - esp. in physical combat. Checked out on pretty much every vehicle in the Shinra stable.

Status: O.K. for duty.

  


AGENT PROFILE: JACOB "JINX" MCMALLAN

Rank: Agent

Age: 21

Blood Type: O

Height: 5'8"

Weight: 155 lbs

Specialties: Communications, computer usage, computer bypass, vehicle piloting, various analyses, infiltration - is equally skilled at lockpicking and electronic bypass.

Notes: Excellent for secondary support, should be kept from the line of fire. Somewhat irreverent, talkative, and brash, he rarely acts his age.

Status: O.K. for duty.

  
  


Mission Description

"Listen up, Valentine. We've spotted Tsematsu Oaki in Junon, where we believe he's waiting for the next ship to take him cross-continent. From there, we think he's planning to make his way to Utai. As you know, Oaki snatched a _very_ important piece of materia from our labs here in Midgar, and it must NOT be allowed to fall into the hands of any of the Utai syndicates. Speaking of the syndicates, any of them might be aiding Oaki in his escape in return for the materia, so don't be surprised if he has backup. We'd prefer him alive if possible, but we're mostly just concerned with the materia. We've authorized a crawler and two team members for you - leave within the hour."

  


_~End of Briefing_

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


So there I stand, on one of those endless metal docks that the Junon engineers are so proud of. Some unnamed thug has a blade to my throat, and Tsematsu Oaki is standing in front of me, tossing the coveted materia up and down in his palm, and laughing his ass off.

  


Boy, did I blow this one.

  


But where are my manners, starting _in media res_ like this? Lemme introduce myself. I'm Vincent Valentine, Special Agent with the Turks. I consider myself to be a pretty nice guy, I have a small rare book collection, I like old maps. I'm also fairly handy with a pistol, which explains my current situation somewhat. But to start at the beginning:

  


First things first; I hate crawlers. I hate the endless cross-country commutes, I hate the shitty road system traversing the continent, I hate listening to the same whirr-whirr-whirr-thud-whirr-whirr-whirr-thud that makes up every single goddamn trip we take. But it's part of the job. I was traveling with my team, if you'd like to call it that; two guys and myself are not exactly the most awe-inspiring team. They're good guys, though - I think you'd like 'em, even if Jinx does talk too much and even if Buck has to bless every single dead body we come across. I mean, it'd be one thing if he was a priest, but he's a goddamn assassin! Anyway.

  


You know about our mission, but to tell you the truth, I wasn't feeling too hot about it. In the first place, this guy Oaki hadn't just "snatched" a piece of materia - he wiped out six guys in the process. Not just sheep, either - these were people who could fight back. I also didn't like the part about him getting in touch with one of the syndicates...if they valued whatever this materia was highly enough, they might send more than just a couple guys to ensure its safety. I didn't mind going against the odds, but I do have slight reservations about taking on twenty or thirty guys with my crack squad of three - two, really, since Jinx wasn't big on the whole fighting thing.

  


But hey. That's the life of a Turk.

  


I was leaning back on one of the benches, brooding. Buck was up front driving, and Jinx, as usual, was pacing.

It always irritated me. "Could ya cut it out, man? You know that gets on my nerves."

"Sorry, man. I'm just nervous." Jinx was always nervous. He was a brilliant ops man, he could get you in just about anywhere and do wonderful and exciting things with computers, but he always psyched himself out before a mission. I wouldn't mind except it kinda psyched me out, too.

"What're you worried about?" I had to ask. "You know you're not gonna get shot at, what's the big deal?"

"I'm not worried about that," he answered. "I'm worried about screwing up. That I'll get in there, and you guys'll be counting on me, and I'll just blow it." That was Jinx in a nutshell. Always worrying about screwing up. The guy had issues.

I flashed a brief, humorless smile. "Well, if you screw up, there ain't no way I'll be alive to get pissed about it, so don't worry about it." I settled back and closed my eyes.

I must've fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, the crawler was stopped, and Buck's gruff tenor could be heard from the front seat.

"We're here."

* * *

  
  


We popped the hatch on the back trunk and started doling out equipment. I took what I always took - two pistols, four grenades, four spare clips. Back when I'd first started, I always used to try and "prepare for everything." I used to stuff myself so full of weapons and gadgetry that I was like a goddamn walking army knife. Within a month or so I finally figured out that it's useless to try and prepare for every contingency. Better just to take the bare minimum and work your way through each situation as best you could...at least you didn't end up weighing three hundred pounds.

Buck took only his "goody bag," as he referred to it with an absolutely straight face, and a pistol. His primary weapon of choice, a battered-but-still-very-functional assault shotgun, was his own personal accouterment. His goody bag contained various tactical explosives. I'd never yet seen him use the pistol.

Jinx's only armament was a tiny little SMG he'd had special made. It fired these tiny little bullets that couldn't kill a mosquito, but it had very little recoil and didn't require too good of an aim. Like Buck's pistol, I'd yet to see it in action.

I gathered them inside the crawler, which was parked in one of Junon's many alleyways.

"Listen up," I began. "Our mission is retrieval first, capture is a distant second. Don't hesitate to shoot first if you think there's some kind of danger." They both nodded.

I spread open a large tactical map of Junon I had courtesy of Shinra, Inc.

"This," I said, pointing to one of the dock's larger berths, "is Dock 4. The _Majesty_, a private freighter running between Junon and Costa Del Sol, is scheduled to depart from this dock at precisely 3:15 PM, or in roughly an hour and a half. After that, the next ship to cross the ocean doesn't leave until the day after tomorrow, so we think it's a fair assumption that Oaki will be on that ship. With any luck, he'll be alone, but we have to prepare for the contingency that one of the syndicates may have sent men to ensure the materia makes it safely to Utai."

I opened another map atop the first. "This is an enlarged map of Dock 4. Boarding occurs here," I pointed, "and we have no reason to believe that Oaki won't simply do that. Our positions will be as follows:"

"I'll take point." As if I had a choice. "I'll take Oaki at the docks and attempt a peaceful retrieval of the materia. I'll be waiting behind this cargo platform," I pointed, "and as soon as I've confirmed Oaki and decided I can take him, I"ll make my move."

"Buck, you'll be up here." I made a mark with a blue pencil. "You'll take a rifle and be our secondary option. If for some reason my little negotiations don't seem to be working, back me up. At that point don't worry about keeping the subject alive, it'll probably be too late for that. Just don't hit me, that's all."

"Jinx, you-" I was interrupted by Buck, who had raised a hand.

Feeling rather foolish, I called on him. "Yes, Buck?"

"Not to interrupt, Vincent, but that point you have me occupying...isn't that the Junon Main Cannon?" Buck's words were always very measured.

I confirmed it. "It'll be a fun little climb, and it's got the best line on the dock by a long shot. Just watch your step." I turned to Jinx. "Now, on to your one and only job. Getting through to central security, getting authorized, getting authorization, etc...that would all take too much time. I need you to hardwire the door to Dock 4 so that you can seal it shut on command. I want you to seal it as soon as I give you the signal, okay? I don't want to give Oaki that kind of escape route. Okay?"

Jinx nodded. "I'll need to be within thirty feet to override the mechanism from central command."

I wasn't so sure how I felt about that. Jinx wasn't exactly used to being in the line of fire. "That's the only way? There's no way you can do it from a safer location?"

"Not in this kind of time frame, bossman," was the reply. "Sorry."

Well, what the hell. It's not like he'd signed up for the Turks expecting a desk job.

"Let's go to work, people."

  


* * *

  
  


The waiting is the worst. Your heart can't figure out whether to pump adrenaline or not, so you alternate between stages of hyper-alertness, nervous boredom, and adrenaline comedown. You look at your watch every fifteen seconds try to figure out something to do with your hands. You also switch positions about forty thousand times, trying to find a position that's comfortable. There isn't one.

  


I'd been there about an hour or maybe three years when I got the double-click confirmation over my radio from Buck that the target(s) were inbound. Sure enough, a few seconds after that I heard the metal door leading into the berth hiss open. I strained my ears, listening for footsteps...definitely more than one pair.

Shit.

  


I spoke very, very quietly into my radio. "How many?"

"Four," came the tense reply back. "Oaki in the front, no visible weapon. Materia not in sight. Three following, look like syndicate, all carrying assault rifles.""

  


Shit.

  


"Okay," I responded, "I'll handle it." Big words, pal. "Stand by."

It was all in the timing. The thuds were getting louder, indicating that Oaki and his little posse were about to pass my hiding place. They reached a crescendo, sustained...sustained...and just as they started to die down, I made my move quickly.

In one smooth motion, I stepped out, drew my pistol, and wrapped an arm around the last guy in line, dragging him close to me. My pistol was at his head before the others had turned around.

"No sudden movements, now. Everyone ju-" I was interrupted by the fact that they'd leveled their guns and promptly started firing. Apparently they didn't think too highly of my little hostage. As the first rounds slammed into the unfortunate gunman, I dropped to my knees and drew in a single movement, sighted along the still-standing corpse's upper thighs, and put a bullet in each of their heads.

Did I mention I'm a pretty good shot?

  


All three bodies collapsed at pretty much the same time. I got to my feet and trained both pistols on Oaki, who had yet to move.

"Well," I said, "Now that we've put that unfortunate little incident behind us...I believe you have something for me, Mr. Oaki."

He spat at my feet. "You're a goddamn Turk, aren't you?"

"Don't see any reason to be vulgar about this, Mr. Oaki," I responded sweetly. "Now, if you please...the materia?"

He reached into his pocket. I waggled the guns. "Slow down, slow down. That's it. Nice and easy."

He slowly brought out the shimmering green ball, that symbol of power and destruction and majesty and ruin so inherent to our civilization. And then he looked up, and started laughing. And then I felt a blade at my throat.

  


* * *

  
  


That's about where we started, right?

  


Anyway, fortunately, now you know a few things that you didn't know when we started, and that Mr. Oaki and his friends are still unaware of. Specifically, Agent Buckingham Lewis. Go ahead, Buck. Enter, stage right.

I felt the sudden convulsion of my unknown assailant as the bullet tore through his neural matter. I knew he was dead for two reasons: first, the blade abruptly fell away from my throat, and second, my very nice suit was now coated with his brain matter. Ah, the perils of the workplace.

I heard the rifle crack again, so I knew Buck was keeping busy, but for now my attention was focused on Mr. Oaki. The materia had been put away, and in its place was a very potent looking katana, held in the en guarde position. He was still laughing, and his eyes gleamed with madness.

For a moment I stood there, perplexed. Had he really brought a sword to a gunfight? But then I figured, the hell with it, if he was gonna pull a weapon he'd just have to pay the price. I fired once, just once, a bullet I knew would kill him.

Except, of course, it didn't. The blade moved impossibly fast and sparked violently, accompanied by the distinctive sound of a ricochet. Again, the en guarde position - and if possible, he was laughing even harder than before.

  


SHIT.

  


No more of this finesse bullshit, I unloaded a full round from both pistols, squeezing off probably four or five shots from each weapon. Seemingly as I fired he wasn't there anymore, he had leapt upwards and was now descending upon me like some angel of doom, katana poised to spear me through the heart. I flung myself sideways, and the blade sank through the metal floor as if it were clay. I rolled to my feet just as Oaki freed his blade and swung it crossways, going for the decapitation. Once again fueled by pure adrenaline and desperation, I managed flip my pistol so I was holding it by the barrel and catch the slash on the trigger-guard. The slash knocked the gun out of my hand and sent me reeling backwards. Oaki pressed forward, and as quickly as I had leveled my remaining weapon on him and fired he was out of the way, rolling behind a nearby set of boxes. I ducked down on the other side, ejecting my used clip and recocking as I did so.

  


_STOP LAUGHING, YOU ASSHOLE!_

  


Not sure if I actually screamed that or not, but I was sure thinking it. The intuition that fighters are born with and find impossible to explain to those who aren't prompted me to roll to one side just as Oaki's blade pierced through the box I had been crouched against. This guy was unreal. I pulled the pin on a grenade and let it just drop where I was, going at a full sprint for the next pile of cargo boxes. I had barely dove up and over when the explosive concussion rocked me, the boxes slammed into me with such force that I nearly blacked out. Clawing myself to my knees, I bracketed my pistol on one of the boxes and focused on the smoke cloud.

Intuition suddenly beckoned again, and I twisted aside - fast enough to avoid the fatal slash, but not fast enough to avoid a gash to my shoulder. The bastard had somehow gotten behind me. He reversed for a horizontal slash which ruffled my hair as I ducked, but then I managed to step in and parry his next slash with a closed fist to his wrist followed by a reverse elbow to his throat. As he recoiled I stepped in quickly so I was hugging him as a brother, put my pistol to his stomach and just blew the son of a bitch away.

I emptied my entire clip into him as I clasped him to me, not even affording him the decency of being prostrate. His eyes bulged and he spit up blood all over me, but I did not let go.

Finally, after my available ammunition was exhausted, I finally allowed him to drop to the floor. His mouth, a bloody mess, was moving but he could form no sounds. His eyes blazed with a hatred I'm absolutely sure was reflected in my own eyes. I took my time reloading, ejecting the spent clip onto his bloody body and casually inserting the next. I gently pressed the muzzle to his temple and gave him the words that would carry him to the next life.

"You son of a bitch." I fired.

  


Slowly, the rage dimmed and I remembered something of my purpose. I reclaimed the materia and put it in my inner jacket pocket. Something - well, a few things actually - caught my eye, and I looked around at what looked like the aftermath of a massacre. No less than seven dead syndicate members, not counting the two I had killed, lay strewn about the docking berth. I gazed out at Junon Main Cannon and slowly raised a hand to the faint outline of a man I saw standing there, who saluted me in return.

All of a sudden I heard a door slam, followed by the patter of running feet. It was Jinx.

"Holy shit, Vince, are you okay? You never gave the signal and I never knew what to do and all of a sudden those other guys walked in! I hid back there and..." he trailed into silence, his eyes traveling across the battlefield.

I suddenly felt very tired. "Never mind, Jinx. Let's just get out of here."

  


* * *

  
  


_"He has the anger, I see. The rage that is so very necessary."_

_ "And single-handedly killing Tsematsu Oaki...that was very impressive."_

_ "Indeed, my good doctor, indeed. We may just have the specimen you're looking for."_

* * *

  
  
  


Thus William the Conqueror. Also, thus Episode 1, which I hope you enjoyed. By all means, suggestions, comments, death threats, etc. Stay tuned for Episode 2, WITH MORE AND MORE CARNAGE!


	2. Episode 2

  


_The rain had been coming down, harder and harder as the night wore on. Vincent stood outside the tiny hut, smoking his seventh cigarette. They had been getting harder and harder to light, and the last one finally spluttered, ashed, and died. He tried in vain to relight it...once, twice...three times. Then he let the cigarette fall, ashes to ashes, dust to dust._

  


_ In the rain, no one can see your tears._

_A small man dressed all in white stepped out of the hut. He looked up at Vincent, and his face beseeched forgiveness. Ever so slightly, he shook his head._

_ "She's gone."_

  


_ Vincent toed the ground where the cigarette had fallen._

  


_ "I know."_

  


_ He stepped out into the night._

  


* * *

  
  
  


The Valentine Chronicles

Episode 2 - Valentine's Day Massacre

  
  


I smoke too much.

  


I'll never really know what perverse attraction Sector 7 held for me. Down there, with the lowest of the low, the real shit of the earth, I felt...universally accepted. I felt like here, at least, I had found people who could understand my level of disgust, cynicism...and hopelessness. They also served the baddest whiskey this side of Gold Saucer.

The Devil's Pad has always been my favorite. The lighting, or rather lack thereof, renders everyone unrecognizable...the bartender is quiet, and doesn't try to engage you in any small talk. You can find a nice place at the bar where you can sit quietly and drink yourself to hell and nobody'll bother you. 

Anyway, I was on my third bourbon and my fifth cigarette when this little tart sidled up next to me and flashed a thousand-watt smile, which I studiously ignored. Not to be deterred, however, she piped up:

"Would ya like to buy some flowers?" Big, big smile.

I took another drag on the cigarette and studied the tip. "No."

"Are ya sure? They're really purdy...from Kalm!" I still couldn't tell if the smile was genuine or part of her sales pitch.

"No, thank you." I punctuated my refusal by downing the bourbon, which should've settled it.

"I really think you ought to...the company wants you to have them," she replied. 

My head jerked up, while a thousand obscenities battled for dominancy over my vocal chords. Finally getting themselves settled, I swore softly and fluently.

She pretended not to notice. "So, can I interest you in some?"

Bitch. "Yeah, sure," I responded. "Tell you what, why don't you pick."

"Sure thing, sir." Again the goddamn smile. "These ones are quite nice." And she handed me a bouquet of slightly faded yellow roses, patted me on the knee, and was gone.

I summoned the bartender, settled up on what gil I still owed, and obtained his permission to use one of the back rooms. I did a quick sweep for bugs, tore open the bouquet, and retrieved the small white card stored within. Tilting it slightly for better light, I got my assignment for the day.

  


_Special Agent Valentine _(it read):

_I'd say I'm sorry for rushing this on you while you're off-duty, but I'm really not. A little firefight has broken out in Sector 5, near the reactor base, and a number of Shinra troops and one SOLDIER, 3rd Class, have been pinned down. They've taken shelter in an abandoned storage shed near the entranceway, but it's anybody's guess as to how long they can hold out. All of us over here at Shinra, Inc. would be very much obliged if you'd go help them out._

  


I touched my cigarette to the paper and watched it burn away to ashes, dropping it only when it became too hot to hold. I stomped out of the bar, unaware of how pissed I actually was until a bum tried half-heartedly to accost me for money and I split my knuckles on his front teeth and knocked two of them out. 

Whoops.

Fortunately, many other experiences with little white sheets of paper had taught me to always expect my vocation to crop up at the most unexpected of times. The butt of my pistol peeked reassuringly at me from its low-strung holster at my left hip, and extra clips dug into my waist from their resting place in my inner jacket pocket. For most people a single pistol was a horrendous underestimation of the enemy, for me it was just business.

Navigating the Midgar Slums is like trying to make your way through some demented children's maze. Machinery tossed aside and the crumpled remains of once-mighty towers took on a new form as a kind of sick obstacle course, a rat's nest to which only a select few held all the keys. I'd been down there dozens of times myself and still didn't know half the hidden passages and abandoned walkways that crisscrossed the slums - but I knew enough to get by. Particularly useful to me was an old sewer system with outlets at every sector. If you didn't mind the smell - and lord only knows I had much more cosmic things to worry about - it could take you pretty much anywhere you needed to go with a minimum of hassle. A bit of slipping and sloshing later, I popped the hatch and emerged into an incredible cacophony of frenzy and sound.

The reactor loomed ahead of me, stretching its prongs into the night sky as if provoking the gods, daring them to take offense for the environmental rape it was committing. Abandoned buildings littered the barren wastes near the reactor, serving as a fitting testament to the devastation the reactor was causing "for the good of Midgar and the good of the world." All of this was well and good and I'm sure you're all enjoying the tour but more immediately important to me were the guys with guns just shooting the shit out of anything and everything that moved.

I became one of those things by twisting out of the manhole and rolling behind an abandoned bulldozer. I drew and squeezed off a few shots at an opportunistic thug who had decided the perfect maneuver would be to charge me head on, and was rewarded by a high-pitched scream as he clutched his abdomen and rolled into the fetal position. As he fell I did a quick appraisal of his armaments, support, and attire, trying to get a bead on my enemy. Only one solution made sense - he had to be REVENANT.

We'll pause to give you a quick history of REVENANT. Like so many of the underground groups in the slums, REVENANT had chosen its name by picking a random, impressive sounding word and putting it ALL IN CAPITAL LETTERS. Presumably this was supposed to imply some incredibly complex acronym or code, but after we captured and interrogated a few of their agents they finally revealed the truth - it was just random. There were a half-dozen such groups, but REVENANT was the one that most concerned Shinra, Inc. - and consequently myself. They were a surprisingly well-armed, disciplined militia that operated out of mobile bases in the slums and had met with fair success in disrupting Shinra mako activities in the slums. They had been responsible for the deaths of over twenty Shinra soldiers and more than a handful SOLDIERs dispatched to deal with the threat. Their leader, an enigmatic man who called himself Bishop, had never been seen in person before, only on telecast. Their propaganda was the usual bullshit, Shinra is destroying our world, only the rich-elite are allowed any sort of upward mobility, everyone is dying, etc. etc. The reason I was convinced this was a REVENANT excursion was because no other faction had such plentiful access to automatic weapons.

The surrounding area was fairly dark, someone had obviously knocked out the power sources nearby and now only the sickly glow of the Mako reactor illuminated the area. I slipped on my sunglasses and dialed up the polarity, finally getting a good look at the proverbial last bastion for those poor souls I was here to save. I felt almost biblical, thinking about it that way. Every so often a sporadic rifle burst would emit from the tiny little storage shack, but other than that it offered no response to the increasingly violent amounts of ferocity being directed at it. The thin metal walls clanged and quivered with each slug, and it was fairly obvious that the structure wouldn't hold long. Time to change that.

With my glasses on I had the edge over everyone else on the battlefield. Skilled manipulation of those glasses could allow me to see in almost any circumstance, an ability that has saved me quite a few times. By peeking my head out over the dozer I could see the pinpricks of light that signaled weapons discharge. I spotted four immediate challengees and dispensed of them with six bullets total. I quickly readied a grenade, tossed it into what seemed to be the center of their haphazard formation, and broke for the shack.

Every time you're running across a battlefield and people are shooting at you, the laws of spacetime refuse to cooperate and you're left running for hours and hours as your safe haven gets infinitesimally closer. I gave myself something to do along the way by picking off two more targets by bracing the gun on my left arm and firing from the right. I finally reached the cover of the shack and ducked behind. Knowing that I'd probably be shot on sight if I just opened the door, I crouched beside and spoke up.

"Shinra troops and a SOLDIER 3rd class, right? This is Vincent Valentine, with the Turks. I'm here to help you out."

There was a rustle of confusion behind the door, and finally a quavering female voice responded. "R-really? Oh thank god, th-they sent someone!"

Taking that as a cue that I wouldn't be shot on sight, I pushed open the crooked tin door and stepped into a massacre.

Six Shinra soldiers (say THAT five times fast) lay strewn about in various stages of death or near-death. Several were missing limbs, one or two were moaning pitifully and none would walk away from that shack, ever again. In the corner, curled into a tight little ball was a little red-headed thing of about seventeen years of age, rocking back and forth. As I entered, she directed a wild-eyed look of desperation and hope at me that spoke of the forty years she'd aged in the past thirty minutes.

"My God," I said. I couldn't help it. It hadn't been any sort of battle, it'd just been a slaughter. "What happened?"

She could barely speak. "W-we were sent to investigate a 50% reduction in Mako feed from the Number 5 reactor...it..it was a trap. Th-they came as we were filing into the reactor, and..." She petered off there. I didn't really need any more explanation anyway.

Something still didn't make sense, though. "How did they manage to kill the soldiers in here? This shack won't last forever, but it seems to have held up pretty well so far."

"Th-they didn't die...in here," she stammered. "When they...first attacked us, we...we fought them off. But everybody was wounded or...or dead, except me. So I dragged them all in here."

I was stunned. I just couldn't picture this little girl dragging two wounded men and four corpses through enemy fire to safety. I had to ask.

"Why?"

"It's what we're supposed to do," she responded simply. "SOLDIERs don't leave bodies."

There was something about that little girl, some spark of vitality, courage, and heroism the symbolized everything I'd lost over the years. She was, in a lot of ways, exactly like I'd been, many years ago. And in a way...she made me want to be that way again.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Amberlee Tenzer, SOLDIER 3rd Class. Sir." she said, coming a bit out of her ball. I saw the bloodied rapier which dangled loosely from her right hand.

"Well, Amberlee," I said, "we're gonna get you out of here. Here's what we'll do. When I say so, you go through that door and run like hell to your left, towards the reactor. They'll expect you to try and go the other way, back towards the center of the city, so it'll surprise them. I'll be right behind you. When you draw parallel with the reactor turn to the right, there'll be a small maintenance shaft to your right. Duck inside and I'll take you out of the city from there."

She was shaking her head, bewildered. "I don't think I can...I'm..."

I nodded. "You can, Amberlee. You have to and you will. Are you ready?"

She got to her feet, unconsciously tucking her rapier back into her belt. She took a series of sharp, shallow breaths, then nodded jerkily at me.

"Atta girl," I told her. "Ready....go!"

  


* * *

  
  


_ She had given him a shaky smile and sprinted through the door. Half a second later she was thrown back into the room, the victim of a haphazardly accurate rifle volley. It wasn't like in the movies, where she was merely wounded...she wasn't even permitted the luxury of a few last, moving words. She was simply stone cold dead, a victim of coincidences, of possibilities and probabilities, of permutations and combinations. She died to appease the law of averages, that was all. Her beautiful green eyes stared reproachfully, sightlessly, at Vincent and at nothing at all._

_Vincent looked at her for a long while._

  


_ His new plan was markedly different from his previous one._

  


* * *

  
  
  


By dialing the polarity of my glasses way down, I was able to see in near-absolute brightness. I had already taken two assault rifles and a brace of flashbangs from one of the corpses, and now I savagely ripped the pins out of them all and stepped back out into the night. With a sweep of my arm I scattered the grenades across the battlefield. Every weapon out there was trained on me, and I made no effort to dissuade them as I strode forward relentlessly. One slug took me in the shin, another in the shoulder. It wasn't that I didn't notice, it wasn't that they didn't hurt, I simply didn't care enough to make an issue out of them at the moment. Then the flashbangs went off, and everything was pure, dazzling, and white.

  


Except my world.

  


I now braced an assault rifle against each shoulder, fully aware of what the combined recoil would do to my body and just as fully accepting it. I flipped the weapons over to fully automatic and just killed everyone. Everything was clear to me, the thugs staggering in the milky brightness, the rifle rounds ripping, tearing, dismembering, rescinding life. Everything was clear to me except the moment after next.

None escaped the initial barrage without at least being wounded. I wandered around a bit, finding life where I could and extinguishing it. Their cries for mercy and whatnot seemed to foreign to me, it was the equivalent of a man accosting a random person and begging him for help. The sentiment was the same..._why ask me?_

Eventually they were all dead.

  


And then it was just me, sitting crumpled on the ground, bleeding my wretched life away, surrounded by the dead. 

  


Home again, home again.

  


* * *

  
  


_ Hope you all enjoyed. I'd love to hear what you think, including suggestions for future episodes, about writing styles, which long-distance phone company is superior, anything at all. Honestly, tell me things, make me a better writer._


	3. Episode 3

Author's Note: Man, so it's been a few months, I know. I've been overwhelmed with work and had originally not planned on continuing this series, but I actually received a few e-mails from y'all asking me to go on, and I was really touched by that...so here you are. As always, keep reading and reviewing, and thank you all for your support!

  
  


* * *

  


_"...These fragments I have shored against my ruins..."_

_~T. S. Eliot, "The Waste Land"_

  


* * *

The Valentine Chronicles

Episode 3

One's Own, Part I

These papers I am so extensively laboring over will serve as my testimony, my inditement, and my confession all rolled into one. If they should ever come to light, perhaps the reader will be encouraged to look at Shinra, Inc., Midgar, and this precarious world upon which we carve our existence a little differently.

  


* * *

Midgar and Wutai were going to war again. Well, to put that more precisely, Shinra Incorporated and the various syndicates that dominated Wutai and most of the western continent were going to war again. It was a profitable relationship for both; the syndicates needed a powerful common threat in order to spur the habitual unifications that occurred from time to time, and Shinra used wars to both spur a stagnant economy and get rid of a lot of dirty laundry.

The common enemy this time was the charismatic young leader of the Pale Flower syndicate, a hard-nosed killer by the name of Rito Hachimaku. He'd unified the syndicates under his direct control by calling a meeting of the syndicate heads in his own house, blowing the house to the ground with a few well-placed explosives, and arriving five minutes late. In this particularly neat and ruthless fashion, Hachimaku had ascended to leadership of the combined syndicates. As the self-styled "Shogun of Wutai," he had provided Midgar with the perfect opportunity to go to war again, and wars meant money, power...and the chance to tie up a few loose ends.

One of those loose ends was a SOLDIER 1st Class by the name of Rafe Callahan, commander of Midgar's 3rd Recon Battalion stationed on the western continent, near the small village of Nibelheim. Callahan was a superb soldier, a brilliant tactician and beloved by his troops. Unfortunately, Shinra had found a little too late that he was also something of a moral man, and morality was one of those things that clashed with the corporation's basic ideology. Callahan had repeatedly skirted orders involving the interrogation of prisoners and the destruction of small villages that might be used as supply bases by the enemy, and two weeks ago he had refused to comply with an order from central command to execute the twenty-three Wutai soldiers he had captured. Shinra command had then ordered Callahan's XO, one Major Garrett Tablaine, to place Callahan under arrest and carry out the executions himself. Tablaine had told command that not only would he not comply with that order, there wasn't a single man in Callahan's command who would. That had been the last communication between Shinra HQ and the 3rd Recon Battalion.

Enter the Turks, which means me. I had been summoned to the 67th floor, Midgar's Department of Intelligence and Investigation (DII.) The orders were simple and direct, travel to the Western Continent, find Callahan and Tablaine, and execute them both. I'd also been given a sealed envelope, with explicit instructions not to open it until I'd successfully completed my mission, but to open it before I returned. A scant forty-eight hours later I was ashore on the western continent, fairly close to the mining city of Corel. I bid farewell to Buck, who had convoyed me over, with instructions to wait not longer than twenty-four hours for me before immediately heading back. He agreed, although I knew he probably wouldn't obey - Buck was as loyal (or disloyal, depending on how you looked at it) as they came.

So it was just me, my pack, and my guns along for the ride...but admittedly, it was a pretty nice ride. Shinra had a few combat motorcycles available for privileged employees and I had just so happened to snag one for the mission, so at least I would be murdering people with a stylish ride. I dropped a GPS beacon near the beach in case my sense of direction failed me on the way back, kicked the bike into gear, and rolled.

  


* * *

I'm not a big fan of assassination jobs, although lord only knows I get enough of them. If you're like me, there's an omnipresent sadness that marks all your actions leading up to pulling the trigger. There's an inexplicable feeling that goes along with knowing you're about to take a life...knowing that that miracle which has been granted, you now plan to rescind. And these were the worst ones, those killings with no self-justifications... "He's got it coming..." or "He's a bad person..." or anything. So that entire four-hour ride, whipping through the night on treacherous mountain paths and dusky plains, was filled primarily with sadness. I'd learned not to try and rationalize with myself in order to alleviate that sadness...it was something I accepted unto myself, as a condition for who I was and who I am. I am a killer, a murderer, and one day I will be called to account for my sins, and there will be justice. No use trying to avoid that.

The 3rd Recon Battalion was stationed in the mountains north of Nibelheim, a series of tents that wound their way up the mountain path towards the peak of Mt. Nibel. Having come from the other side of the mountain, I stood at the peak, overlooking the encampment. So many men...trusting and believing absolutely in their leader, following him blindly down whatever path he chose. What was it that inspired that kind of devotion in men? And what kind of man was I, to so callously be willing to take that life? I skipped that. I already knew what kind of man I was.

The sound of crunching gravel interrupted by reverie, and I slipped neatly behind a bush while a tag team of sentries strode past, stopped to look around for five or six seconds, then moved on. I shook my head in disapproval, I would have made it ten at least. I slipped out behind them and put a trank dart in both of their necks with my .38. I might be here on an assassination mission, but I'd be damned if I was going to make this into a massacre. Another massacre, I really should say...I seem to trail massacres wherever I go. I snuck quietly down the mountain towards the big tent at the very northern tip of the encampment - the obvious command tent. After a quick survey of the surrounding area, I climbed up a nearby rock formation which provided a nice up-to-down view of the tent and its perimeter. Then, slowly, methodically, I opened my pack and began to assemble.

While putting together the rifle, I was struck by how much I really didn't want to do this job. I usually got hit with the sadness and the doubt when I was assembling the sniper rifle, but this particular time it hit me pretty hard. I really, really didn't want to kill this man. I idly wondered if that would make him feel any better, then realized he'd be dead anyway, and then I didn't want to kill him even more. In rereading this, I realize it may strike the reader as a little odd that I never considered _not_ doing the job, even for a moment. No matter how much I hated the assignment, there was never any doubt that I would carry it out. I was a Turk, and a Turk always did his job. Always.

I checked my special clip one last time. My special clip was comprised of one tranquilizer bullet at the top followed by fourteen very real bullets loaded below. Satisfied for the last time that I hadn't messed it up, I popped the clip into the rifle, snapped on the scope, and my instrument was complete. I braced the rifle against a rock and turned it down upon the encampment.

The plan was a simple one.

The command tent was ringed with blue-uniformed guards, stern and alert in their vigilance of their commander. I picked one of the juiciest targets - one of the two soldiers directly in front of the tent's entrance - and put the trank bullet right in the back of his neck. He dropped like a stone. Now all I had to wait for them to do was to follow procedure and attempt to evacuate Callahan, and I would have him.

The soldiers reacted predictably. Shouts of alarm, lots of bumping and jostling, and the other soldier at the entrance immediately dashed inside the tent. I knew what would happen now, they would organize what they thought to be a safe evacuation for their commander and get him to a secure area. They would think that they were saving him, but in reality they would be killing him. I shifted my weight slightly and trained my rifle on the tent's entrance.

Then, however...things stopped going to plan. The rest of the soldiers had reacted to the best of their ability, some of them were trying to scour the area, others had taken cover in tents and whatnot, and a few brave ones still stood guard in front of the command post. But no escort and no Callahan emerged from the tent. After a long while, I saw that same soldier who had gone to warn Callahan emerge from the tent and bark a few orders. The nearby soldiers looked surprised, but they all saluted - and then, to my astonishment, the entire lot of them simply left the area. Every damn soldier who'd been guarding the tent just packed up and got the hell out of there. Thirty seconds later, there wasn't a soul in sight. My brain buzzed.

Was it some kind of trap? Would they really leave their beloved commander completely exposed to an unknown assassin - as _bait?_ Or maybe the commander wasn't there at all, and some sort of trap awaited me inside the tent? But how would they have something like that already set up? And if Callahan _wasn't_ in there, why the hell did the soldier run inside? Perhaps Callahan was just holed up inside the tent with his best men, waiting it out and presumably calling for reinforcements. But then, a savvy soldier like him would know that an assassin would simply torch the tent without ever entering. The only reason I hadn't in the first place was that it was always better to get a positive ID on the kill.

..._just what the hell was going on here?!_

I waited on that rock for five minutes, rifle trained in the tent, debating what to do. On the one hand, I couldn't believe the battalion would just leave their commander to his fate inside the tent. On the other hand, I couldn't figure out what the hell else could've just happened. Finally, I figured, the hell with it. If Callahan had set up some sort of improbable trap to save himself and deal with me by sending his entire guard detail away, then he was the better man for it and my life would be forfeit. I set my rifle to one side and exploded into action, breaking cover and bursting out in a zigzag sprint, headed for the tent. If Callahan really did have the one up on me and had a sniper in place already, I wanted to give him his money's worth. But I heard no shots as I barreled down the mountain and finally tucked into a roll, diving forward at the tent. At the same time, I snagged my knife from its ankle holster and sliced a neat vertical incision in the side of the tent, coming to one knee on the other side and training both pistols on the interior of the tent.

Maps, charts, chairs, desks: I took them all in as an aside; my eyes and weapons were trained on the man seated at the head of a small conference table, his back to me. Had he been holding a weapon or had he made any sudden moves, I would've shot him on the spot - but he did neither. We stayed like that, in frozen tableau, for probably five seconds.

Finally, he very slowly swivelled to face me, and I got my first look at SOLDIER 1st Class Rafe Callahan. He was an imposing figure, with a dramatic white slash highlighting his otherwise jet black hair and piercing light blue eyes. He had a large build and a strong jaw, but there was an aura of strict morality about the man, the only kindness that can be afforded to men of war. The way he sat in that chair, arms on either rest, feet firmly planted, made me feel slightly less in control of the situation than I had expected.

I didn't pull the trigger.

Instead, I growled, "Keep your hands where I can see them. No sudden movements, please."

"So you've come?" he asked. "Never mind...I know you have. I've been expecting you."

"Expecting me?" I asked. It sounded stupid.

"But of course." He flipped a palm. "You don't disobey a direct order from Shinra and expect them to just laugh it all. I knew they'd send someone."

I felt foolish. Of course he'd know that. "Why'd you send away all your guards?"

"I didn't want you to kill them," he responded simply. "The odds were, if they sent someone to...deal...with me, it'd undoubtedly be someone who could handle a few standard-issue troopers. They don't deserve to be responsible for my...personal feelings."

I hadn't moved my gun an inch, but my tone had eased slightly. "...Why'd you do it?"

"Do what?" he asked.

"You know. Refuse your orders. Refuse to execute those soldiers."

He laughed, suddenly, but there was a timbre to the laugh I couldn't place, some emotion whose name wasn't coming to me. "Soldiers? Is that what they told you?"

I blinked, caught at a loss, and he saw it. Callahan didn't miss much. "So they didn't tell you. Well, that's not unexpected, I suppose." He shifted a bit in his seat, apparently getting comfortable.

I wasn't so sure what was going on. "What are you talking about?"

He cleared his throat. "Up until two weeks ago, a small detachment of syndicate forces had been occupying Nibelheim...just an advance legion, really. But they had weapons and materia, and the townspeople had none...so they were pretty much in control, though there weren't too many of them. They picked the seven nicest houses in the town to live in and generally just acted like barbarian conquerors."

I shook my head, uncomprehending.

He smiled sourly. "House number one held a husband, a wife, and their two daughters. House number two was just a husband and his wife. Number three was a widowed wife and her two grown sons. Number four? Husband, wife, and five children...two boys, three girls. Number five was a newlywed couple and their ten-month old boy. House number six was two brothers and a sister, all grown up, living together. And finally, number seven was the mayor's house, he lived there alone."

I closed my eyes. "...Twenty-three in all."

"Right." He nodded. "After we drove Wutai out of Nibelheim, Shinra accused them of 'aiding and abetting' the enemy, and sentenced them to death. Killing prisoners of war is one thing, I probably wouldn't have done that either. But this was another story entirely. There wasn't a man in my command who would stand for such an order, from my XO on down to the lowliest private. So we cut off communications and resolved never to take orders from Shinra again."

I was fascinated. "So what have you been doing?"

"Fighting the syndicates, as before," he replied. "Our mission hasn't changed, the people of this continent still need someone to protect them from Hachimaku and his damned monsters. But we don't do it in the name of Shinra anymore."

There are a variety of reasons why a person keeps his mouth shut, but the best one is that he just doesn't have anything to say, and I didn't.

His tone became businesslike. "So you're a Turk, I'm assuming. Sent to kill me, I take it?"

I nodded, my tone barely audible. "And Major Tablaine."

The barest hint of a smile. "I figured as much, so I made sure to get him to a safe location. You won't find him."

Again, I had nothing to say. I really didn't want to shoot this man.

I think he could read it in my eyes. "...You're just doing your job, aren't you, Mr...?"

"Valentine." I don't know why I responded. "Vincent Valentine."

"Well, Mr. Valentine, I want you to promise me something before you kill me," he said. "Leave the men under my command out of this. I, at least, am dying for a legitimate reason. Not a just or moral reason, certainly...but there is a reason. I knew that when I disobeyed orders. But my men have done nothing wrong. Leave them out of this."

I thought back to my orders. "My orders are specifically to find and eliminate Soldier 1st Class Rafe Callahan and Major Garrett Tablaine. They say nothing about the men under your command."

"It's a promise, then?" His eyes probed me.

"...Yeah. It's a promise."

He nodded, and settled back in his chair. He closed his eyes, briefly, then opened them. "All right, Turk. Do your job."

So I did.

It hit me, later, that the special tone to his laugh had been compassion. For me.

  


* * *

Later, back at my original rock, disassembling my rifle and repacking it, I came upon the sealed envelope. I went back and forth on it for a while but then decided that my basic mission was, in fact, fulfilled, so I slit it open with my knife and drew out a folded sheet of paper. It read:

_Special Agent Valentine:_

_ If you're reading this, presumably Soldier 1st Class Rafe Callahan and Major Garrett Tablaine are dead. Here are your followup orders. Information has been covertly leaked to the Wutai syndicates that the 3rd Recon Battalion will be moving west towards the western shore in preparation for an invasion of Wutai itself, and that they will be departing sometime tomorrow morning. Consequently, they have set up an ambush along that very route which, if sprung, would lead to the annihilation of the entire battalion. Your orders, therefore, are to forge a set of orders from Callahan and distribute them to the men. The orders will be to march, as expected, straight towards the western coast. You are then to stay and observe the total destruction of the 3rd Recon Battalion and eliminate any survivors. They have betrayed their country and they must pay the ultimate penalty for their betrayal._

I sat there for a long time.

  


* * *

That night, asleep behind my rock, I had two dreams:

_Vincent is strapped to some sort of medical bed, writhing in desperation. Hallucinations and visions torment him, in his hallucinations he is changing, growing, mutating...he stares in horror at his limbs as they distort and elongate, he feels the very elements of his soul and his sanity being ripped to shreds, and he knows, somehow, that this is no hallucination..._

I didn't remember the second dream very well. All I remember is a woman, a woman so beautiful that I hardly knew what to do with myself, and even then I couldn't remember any features. I couldn't even begin to describe her, except to say that she had been the encapsulation of everything that is wonderful and everything that is terrible in the world, and that she would be my salvation or my damnation, and that I would not be able to tell which was which. But I had a name, whispered on the winds, left resonating within me even as I slowly returned to the waking world.

_"Lucrecia..."_

  


* * *

Author's Note: This was originally supposed to be one story, but it got going so long I'm splitting it into two parts. Hope you all enjoyed, please read and review, I'm always open to comments, suggestions, or donations. Thank you all!


	4. Intermezzo

"Dammit, Lucrecia, he's waking up! I told you that absolute sedation is essential for the process!"

"_Don't worry about it, darling...he's so doped up, to him it will only be a..."_

The Valentine Chronicles

"Vincent's Dream" (Intermezzo)

It started, as some confusing dreams do, with a _waking._

_oh my God I'm strapped to this table what's happening to me help me help_

It was sunset. It was Costa Del Sol. It was Lucrecia.

He lay upon the powdery sand and drank her vision in like the cleanest and coolest of water. Her visage was balm and bliss, it was somehow more of a _feeling_ than a collection of features – details like eyes, mouth, hair...such things were inconsequential. She was salvation.

"I love you," he said simply.

She smiled, oh that smile, that wonderful (_carnal_) smile, running a finger down his arm to rest lightly upon his hand (_a claw it's a claw what the hell am I)._

"Of course you do," she breathed, and she was right. Lucrecia was always right. His love for her had eclipsed morality and emotion. It was simply essential. He loved her with the same mindless absoluteness that inspired all his other bodily functions. He loved her to live as he breathed to live, and as his very cells tore themselves to pieces in order to rebuild his body (_better faster stronger damned) _so too did each new cell desire her more. He loved her as he loved death.

He longed to go to her, to envelop himself in her, but alas...it was a dream, and the laws of reality do not necessarily apply to dreams. He felt overcome with the paralysis of his feeling for her (_eighty tons of resistance on those shackles, boy, just try your luck) _and could do nothing. So he spoke.

"You weren't wearing white."

She fingered the hem of her pearly white (_labcoat_) dress and laughed. "No, I suppose I wasn't."

"You were wearing a green dress. I told you that it matched your eyes and you said it couldn't, because your eyes were the color of life, and no dressmaker was that talented. Then we went into town and had lobster for dinner and you made me let you pay because you said your salary was ten times mine and..." Vincent trailed off as his world started to reel (_200 milligrams ought to do it, nice and easy...) _and everything seemed to rotate ninety degrees. The sand, the surf, and the water became reality's wall, he gazed down beseechingly upon a floor which was only the horizon. Only some sort of improbable, dreamy physics kept Vincent from falling, falling, falling forever.

Vincent wished he could.

But there was still Lucrecia...still the light at the end of the tunnel. If only, he thought dreamily, he knew what color that light was...

He was impossibly tired.

"Vincent..." her voice floated through the world, "...you're doing so well. My Vincent."

He gazed at her as the world abstracted, as the sky spouted machinery, chemical tanks, test tubes. The sun rose swiftly, became a spotlight. Everywhere, the pale yellow of sand and sun became a sickly green.

His voice was fuzzy, coming as a muddled grumble.  
  
"Did you ever love me?"  
  
She stared at him, eagerly, hungrily. "Vincent..."

"...I love you more now than I ever have before. My sweet Vincent. Look at what you've done for me." Her next words were directed to the faceless man who, Vincent realized, had somehow been standing there the whole time.

"Put him under."

(oh no you don't you bitch you wonderful terrible bitch you won't get away so easy NOW YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME)

_I blinked my yellow eyes, concentrating what remained of my vocal chords on providing coherent speech._

"_You damn yourself as you damn me."_

And then the dream was over...a dream which, like so many, would go unremembered the next morning.

(goodnight, Vincent, goodbye)

I woke up before sunrise the next morning, feeling strangely unrefreshed. Not that it really mattered, but it still kind of irritated me. The moon was still out, tinged faintly green.

I packed camp and stowed away all but the essentials. As always, I went through my morning routine, teeth brushed, face washed, guns oiled and loaded. Then I headed west.

There was death in the air. There was killing to be done.

Author's Note: Another long update, sorry about that. Hope you all enjoyed, as always, read and review!


	5. Episode 4

_Sing we for love and idleness_

_Naught else is worth the having._

_Though I have been in many a land,_

_There is naught else in living._

_-_Ezra Pound, _An Immorality_

The Valentine Chronicles

Episode 4: One's Own, Part II (Vincent's War)

Following orders is always the easy way out. Sometimes it's the only way out.

I was back in Callahan's tent. I typed up a signed-and-sealed Order of the Day for distribution among the 3rd Recon Battalion. The orders contained the bad news that SOLDIER 1st Class Callahan would not be leading this particular excursion due to a run of bad health, but that he sends his best wishes. The troops were ordered to march west, just south of the western branch of the Nibel mountain ridge that separated Nibelheim and Rocket Town. Upon arriving at the western coast, they were to set up camp and prepare an embarkation point for the eventual invasion of Wutai.

The orders did not mention anything about the fact that this was a suicide march. That probably would've had a negative effect on morale.

It all went as smoothly as could be. The company commanders arrived at the tent, were told that Callahan was suffering from illness but had their orders for them, and went to carry those orders out. By noon, the entire battalion had packed camp and was on the move, winding its way down the mountain path that switchbacked back and forth across the ridge. They were proud, confident, and completely unaware.

I trailed them from the ridge top, picking my way across knolls and outcroppings. If I looked to my north and squinted, I could see the shimmering spire of Shinra Rocket No. 26, purportedly bound for outer space sometime in the next thousand years. As the day wore on, the red glare of the sun stood in mute testament to the blood that would be shed tonight. There would be a lot of blood, all innocent, and all on my hands. Pretty standard job description for a Turk.

Why'd I join them, to begin with? It's a question I go back and forth on. Helluva good looking suit, to begin with. Great salary, good perks, great way to pick up women, yadda yadda yadda. There's something more to it, though, something I always shied away from admitting, even to myself. Sure, I had joined the Turks to do some good in the world, admittedly from the shadows. But that sense of moral obligation was confusingly juxtaposed with a much baser instinct – an instinct I've spent a long time denying myself.

I love combat. I love killing.

I love the adrenaline rush, the smell of cordite, the interminable nature of mortal aggression. I love the recoil of a pistol, the sound a grenade pin makes as it tinkles to the floor, the look in a man's eyes when he realizes you're the faster draw. There is a darkness inside my heart, and it constantly beseeches me to be let out, to be let loose, to be unleashed upon the world. You can't be a Turk without it, really. Not a good one.

The sun was setting as the 3rd Recon moved into the foothills of the Nibel Mountains, preparing to set up camp. I watched from the ridge top as they bustled about, starting fires, setting up tents, fully going about things as if they expected to be alive the next day. I lit a lonely campfire of my own and gnawed on some three-day old rabbit meat. I wasn't sure if the Wutai ambush would be sprung tonight or tomorrow, when the troops reached the coast, but my hunch was tonight. The cover of darkness was ideal, as was the position of the battalion – nestled in the foothills, they were easy prey for an assault from above.

I went to sleep. I realize this might confuse some of you. _But Vincent, aren't you on a mission!_ you'll demand. All I can say is, if your body isn't wired to wake itself up when things start happening around you, you shouldn't be in the intelligence/covert ops/killing people business. You learn to catch your sleep when you can, and your body learns when to wake itself up.

My eyes opened. There was death in the air.

My sense of time told me it was roughly two fifteen in the morning, give or take a few minutes. A few fires were still smoldering in the campsite, but mostly they were out, the soldiers sleeping soundly. Far too few guards patrolled the outskirts of the camp, not looking too alert. The place was ripe for an ambush, and one was coming.

They were good, but not good enough to hide themselves from me. I saw them, split roughly into two groups, creeping down the ridge towards the camp: Wutai assassins. There looked to be roughly eighty of them in total, each approaching from a different end of the campsite. While they'd be outnumbered roughly ten to one (the average Shinra battalion consisted of about 1,200 men, but the recon battalions had less), that only mattered in a pitched battle. This wasn't a pitched battle, it was an ambush – and once the assassins took out the guards, it would become a massacre. All my doing. I felt momentarily sick to my stomach.

The image of Callahan, seated in his chair, staring me down snuck unbidden into my head. I'd given that man my word, and here I was, masterfully orchestrating the slaughter of every last one of his men. Shit, I didn't like that one goddamn bit. I've done a lot of shitty things in my life, but I've always tried to cling to my honor as one of the last vestiges of my own personal morality. Yet here I was, shooting it to hell, all for the job.

Ah, well, it's not like I'm not already going to hell anyway. Just means a few more million years in the eternal pits of hellfire, or whatever else the devil's got cooked up for me. I'm sure by now he's pretty excited about getting me down there.

The guards went down, one after another, victims to a blade to the throat. The assassins were in the camp.

Flame. The stench of burning flesh, the horrific screams of the engulfed. The frantic, mindless stampeding of a doomed collective, with no destination but annihilation. And finally, the relative quiet…when everyone is dead or near-dead. I smoked a cigarette.

_It's a promise, then?_

_…Yeah. It's a promise._

I decided I had some work to do. It wouldn't salvage my honor, but at least it would right the scales. And besides, I really just needed to kill, and kill a lot. Sorrow and regret had given way to cool, crystallized rage.

I made my way down the ridge, eventually following the exact path the ambushers had followed. The Wutai assassins were still prowling the flaming campsite, searching for survivors and dispatching them. As I crouched down, right by the eastern edge of the camp, I could see two of them almost right in front of me, finishing off a blue-armored soldier with both legs missing. I slipped the silencer on each pistol and splattered their heads from forty paces, the musical click of the gunshots almost completely silenced by the still-crackling fires. A third assassin nearby had time to look up in alarm before I punched a bullet through his neck. Nobody else had noticed. I moved into the camp.

From then on it was my game, all the way. I kept to the perimeter at first, taking my time, dropping guards in ones and twos. No grenades, no loud noises, just the cover of darkness and precision marksmanship. When I had completed the circle and returned roughly to where I started, I moved in a bit. Now that my killing zones were surrounded by fires on all sides, subtlety became less of an option. I ripped the pins off three grenades and hurled them into the rough center of the camp, ducking behind a smoldering tent as I did. The resulting explosions produced some extremely satisfying screams, and even better, the sound of running footsteps, headed my way. I tossed aside the two .38s and drew two .45s instead – the time for pure killing power had come.

I could tell that they were getting close by their footsteps. As the first one came into view I whipped out a forearm and caught the spot just below his chin beautifully – his head flew backwards as his neck audibly snapped. Almost immediately I had my arm around his shoulders as I maneuvered his body in front of mine. Shots rang out from somewhere in front of me, thudding into my human shield's chest and abdomen, and I was able to mentally map their locations from the gunshots. I tossed the body forward and rolled to the right, squeezing off three shots from each gun as I moved. Six shots, six shooters, six corpses. I moved towards center camp.

I got a lucky break. The Wutai assassins had apparently spared the tent with the battalion's ration of alcohol in it, and a fair amount of them had decided to celebrate their recent massacre by getting shitfaced together. I was able to wipe them all out with a single well-thrown grenade, which was a real time-saver. One of them managed to claw his way outside the tent, and I had just finished him off when a thin trail of pain seared its way down my left cheek.

"Most impressive," came a too-calm voice. "Nearly my entire squad. My, my, my."

I wheeled around. Dark-haired man, about my height, dressed all in black. He held a throwing dagger in his left hand, and his empty right hand probably accounted for the blood dripping down my cheek. He was flanked on either side by two masked Wutai assassins, dressed much as he was.

"And you are?"

"Rittake Fui," was the reply. "Commander of the Snow Leopard Squad…well, former squad, I should say. You seem to have…thinned our numbers a bit."

I shrugged. "Sorry about that."

He shook his head. "It's the syndicate way. Those who deserve to live…do. Those who die have merely paid for their own inadequacy."

"Right," I spit out. "Just like you're about to pay for yours, you callous bastard."

"I doubt it." He raised his hand slightly. I gripped my guns.

He was fast...almost too fast. His left hand blurred and I barely had time to sidestep as the knife whipped past my chest. He let fly with two more almost immediately, but by now the instinct had taken hold and I shot each one out of the air. One of the other two assassins was charging me with a long dagger aimed squarely at my sternum – I flung myself backwards to avoid the first thrust and ducked to avoid the second. As the blade whistled over my head I broke his kneecap with a snap left foot and shot him twice in the gut as he was going down. Two to go. The other lackey tried to go for a gun, I put two bullets in his brain before his hand ever touched his weapon. One left…but where was he!

I sensed Fui behind me and whipped around, consequently saving my life. The knife which would've cut my spinal chord from behind hit my shoulder instead, wrenching the pistol from my hand and sending shockwaves of pain radiating through my body. Unfortunately for Fui, I was still upright, and I still had one gun left. He tried again, another knife spinning towards me, but I shot it out of the air with one bullet and dropped him with the second. Right between his goddamned eyes, the son of a bitch.

I wrenched the knife out and went looking for more people to kill. There weren't many left, at that point. The ones I found, I killed, and killed good.

And in the end, it was the mirror image of so many tableaus before. All the scales had been balanced, all debts paid for in blood. Everyone was dead but me. A fitting end to Vincent's war. My war.

I wrapped my shoulder, packed my stuff, and headed east. Back to Midgar. Back to Shinra. Back to my job. After all, I'm a Turk, and killing is my business. Don't you ever forget it.

_Author's note: More coming. Eventually. Read and review, or you'll be stricken by a plague of locusts. You hear me! LOCUSTS!_


	6. Episode 5

(Edit: I got a little lost on the continuity problems, so the story needed to be changed slightly. Thanks to the people who pointed that out to me.)

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- _

_"He's good."  
"Many are."  
"True, but he's…exceptional."  
"Let's find out for sure. Test him."_

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_

The Valentine Chronicles  
Episode 5 – The Duel

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I had been summoned back to Midgar.

That was unusual. It was one thing to return to Midgar after an assignment, for debriefing and a retrofit. But this time, it was mid-mission. I was working a potential spy stationed in Kalm, who had reportedly been passing classified info onto the syndicates, when the order came signed and sealed to return to Midgar at once, top priority. I'd never seen anything like it.

I passed the word on to continue the investigation in my absence, and hopped my bike, headed for the center of civilization. As the spires of Midgar crested the horizon, beckoning to me, I let my mind wander. What the hell could this be about? What could possibly warrant such a breach of protocol? By the time I rolled through the main gate and was speeding through the streets, I'd narrowed it down to two options. Either they were gonna promote me, or they were gonna shoot me. I wasn't sure which one I deserved more.

I parked my bike in the garage and headed for the elevators, sliding my ID card out of my wallet on the way. From there it was a quick hop up to the 67th floor, past the big bronze D. I. I. (Helping Midgar stay Safe and Secure) plaque in the lobby, through three levels of clearance (Operative, Agent, Special Agent) and finally into a small reception area. The probably-was-cute-ten-years-ago receptionist flashed me a smile and waved me through the door on the far side, and I stepped through and into the Office. I immediately snapped to attention, back ramrod straight.

"Sir."

"At ease, Agent Valentine," said Carze, director, D.I.I., director, Shinra Military Intelligence, Agent-in-Charge, Turks.

I dropped my shoulders, although only slightly. A face-to-face meeting with Director Carze was no time to relax.

He waved me to a chair. "Have a seat, Agent Valentine."

"Thank you, sir," I responded, sitting. Carze was seated behind a giant mahogany desk, with two computers framing him on either side.

He regarded me for a moment, then settled back in his chair. "I suppose you're wondering what you're doing here, hmm?"

"Yes, sir."

"It's quite simple, really," Carze said. "You're being considered for promotion. Your performance up until now has been superlative, and myself and the other officers of the corporation believe you have what it takes."

"Thank you, sir." So I wouldn't be shot. Phew.

"However," he waggled a finger. "We're not sure. Your fieldwork has been excellent, your completion of assignments without flaw. What we want is a firsthand assessment of your combat abilities."

I controlled a smirk with difficulty, managing to keep a straight face. "Certainly, sir. Any time you wish." My combat abilities? My _combat abilities!_ If that was the only contentious point, then that promotion was practically in the bag. The pay hike, the increased benefits, the increased seniority, the…

"Confident, are we?" He must've seen something in my face.

I didn't seen any reason to hide it. "Yes, sir."

"Good." His impassive features split into a subdued, but undeniably feral, grin. "Because you'll be tested against someone else who's vying for promotion. Your opponent will be going for his SOLDIER 1st Class ranking. The duel is tomorrow morning, 9 AM, on Parade Ground C. Good luck, Agent Valentine."

"Sir." I rose to my feet. Back straight, heels touching, I saluted my boss, the director of the Turks. Then I got the hell out of there and went to find something to drink.

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I can't drink aboveground, I don't know why. Too classy for me, maybe, or too illuminated. Down in the slums, in the shadows, surrounded by the cornucopia of bottom-dwellers and their dirty yet ingenious lifestyles…that's where a real man does his drinking. I'm a Sector 5 man myself, although I'd be happy to debate the topic with you over a cold brew any time. As long as you're buying.

I was hunched over the bar, smoking, drinking. My body language discouraged local patrons from attempting any sort of conversation, and on the rare occasions where that failed to dissuade them, my utter lack of responses usually did. That night there had been no attempts, and I had been left to my blissful solitude.

A beautiful woman sat down next to me.

I don't normally notice women. Not that I'm not into them, or anything, but my chosen profession just doesn't allow for any sort of interactions with the fairer sex, other than maybe a quickie with a Sector 3 prostitute on an off night. But when it comes to meeting women, getting to know them, buying them flowers, taking them to dinner, etc. etc…I just don't have the time. So unless the woman is offering me gratification within the next half hour, she just isn't worth it.

This one was different, though. Jesus H. Christ, was she different.

Blond hair, pale skin, and green eyes…man, what eyes. They were big, almost luminous in their design, and they threatened to envelop you if you looked for too long. She wore a dark green dress, expensive in its simplicity. She sipped a martini like she could take it or leave it.

I figured I should probably stop staring. I stared at my beer, instead.

"Excuse me," came the voice, soft and low and full of delightful promises. "…But are you Vincent Valentine?"

I blinked and looked up, startled. She was watching me with a faint smile, as if she already knew the answer.

"Yeah, that's me," I growled. "How'd you know?"

The half-smile became a full smile, sending all sorts of unexpected feelings bouncing around my body. "They sent me here and told me to look for the cute guy in a suit," she murmured, eyes sliding from me to her drink and back again.

I felt the blood heat my face, realized I was blushing, and blushed more. She saw it, too, her smile widened, my blood pumped faster.

"My, my. You _are_ cute."

I stared at my drink, furious. "And who would 'they' be?" I nearly snarled, unaccustomed to this lack of control over my bodily functions.

"Why, the company, of course," she replied. "I work for them."

"I see," I muttered, refusing to look back at her. This was ridiculous. She was playing me like a violin. Then, suddenly, her tone changed.

"I'm sorry, Vincent," she murmured softly. "I didn't mean to embarrass you. I just came to wish you good luck tomorrow. I'm really…I'm really rooting for you." I looked up at that, and saw her biting her lip, her eyes downcast. I can't even begin to explain how beautiful she looked to me at that moment, how wonderfully hesitant, how perfectly innocent. I'm not going to spout clichés like "it was love at first sight" or anything, but…but…

She abruptly got to her feet. "I have to go."

I was paralyzed. There was so much I wanted to ask her, so much I wanted to say to her, but I couldn't find the words. She paused, almost as if waiting for me to say something, then gave me a small smile and headed for the door, vanishing from my life as quickly as she had entered it.

God, I'd wanted her to stay. But what should I have said? What _could_ I have said?

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The next morning, there I was. Standing in the middle of Parade Ground C, one of Shinra's wide-open stretches of concrete, used for training and marches. The observers weren't physically present, but could see the action from four remote aircams that were buzzing around, tracking the action from all sorts of different angles. And, facing me, about thirty paces away, was my opponent.

He had short red hair, wore a cocky grin, and was decked out in the traditional SOLDIER uniform. But the thing that kept grabbing my attention was the sword. Easily six feet long and a little under a foot wide, checkered with battle scars, this thing was MASSIVE. I couldn't imagine lifting the thing, let alone wielding it in any sort of combat-effective way. Yet there this guy was, looking as though he fully intended to split me in two with the thing. My confidence level dropped a bit.

He put a hand on the hilt. I lowered mine to my pistols.

A voice rang out over the P.A.:

"Begin."

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_…………..the man charges, leveling his sword,__ Vincent sights and fires several rounds with both pistols, but the man whips his sword around to deflect the bullets, and suddenly he is in the air, descending upon Vincent with his blade poised..._  
_...  
...  
...  
__...Vincent whirls, the blade whistling by his left ear as he desperately searches for an opening, the man reverses his grip and slashes horizontally...__  
...__  
...__  
...__rolls frantically to the right as the man plunges his sword into the spot where Vincent was, the blade sparking and ripping through concrete...  
...__  
...__...  
...__...  
...neatly pierces his left shoulder, blade digging into bone, blood dripping down the battle-scarred blade as...  
...  
...  
...  
...  
...__  
...barely manages to deflect the shot as Vincent presses his advantage, pumping the last remaining shot from his left pistol into the SOLDIER's kneecap, who cries out in...  
...__...  
...  
...  
...  
__...Vincent's head is snapped back as the hilt of the huge sword breaks his jaw, he staggers and falls to__...  
...  
...__...  
...  
...allows the blade to skewer his arm in exchange for a clear shot at his opponent's...  
...  
...  
...__his blood sprays all over the concrete__...  
...__  
...__there is nothing left...  
...  
_

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"Enough."

I tried to push myself up from a prone position but my ruined arm wouldn't allow it. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the SOLDIER about five feet from me, on both knees in a pool of blood, only the sword keeping him from collapsing. Our blood seeped and ran together.

He spoke, spitting lifeblood with each word.

"What's your name, Turk?"

"Vincent." Hardest word I'd ever had to speak, it sent rivulets of agony ricocheting through my broken jaw.

Then we fainted.

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_Author's Note: From here on out the story will be less episodic in nature and more tied towards one cohesive story. I hope you liked, read and review, save the whales! Better dead than red!_


	7. Progression or Regression

?

I looked into her eyes and she looked into mine.

"_...You cannot be forgiven, Lucrecia."_

_---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- _

...I have awoken yet I remain riddled in darkness...

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

...I catch snatches of conversation as if tuning hesitantly into a radio station:

"...&_t#ese cursed interrupti)#s#& ...#he pr(per do$age or we'll n#ver b t#ough #&)(#(..."_

_...please, oh please, let me be dreaming, let this not be..._

The world reassembles, snappily fitting pieces of itself into shape. See the sky form, the most furious of storms becoming the bluest of horizons. See the ocean, as the waves meet shoreline and water washes into sand. See the beach, my friends...as well as you are able See the moon, peeking over the northern cliffs, brimming with the vigor of fullness. See the clouds, pale-white against the darkest of blues, reshaping moonlight into the sweetest of shapes.

But most of all, my friends...

See Lucrecia, and see the divine.

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

We talk, her and I.

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

"You're turning me into a monster."

"I am."

I nodded.

"It's Hojo."

"It is."

I nodded.

"You told me you loved me."

"I do."

I understood.

God help me, I understood her at last.

"You..."

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

All is reversed. I hiccup words back into my throat, unsay all that has been said. The world disassembles, scattering into nothingness. A hazy figure fades into view, resolves, quickly retreats, and I realize that I have been...

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_"...he's waking up!"_

...regressing in time.

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

...I retain only vague recollections of my lapse into the future. The harder I concentrate, the more elusive the memories become. Unresolvable, the future loses cohesion and fades back into its natural state...a hazy conglomeration of hopes, dreams, and fears.

A single sentence flits across my tongue, unbidden though not unwelcome. I mouth the unfamiliar syllables, for noone to hear.

_You lust for the most horrible of things._

Shapes congeal into being, shadowed heads peering down upon me.

"What did he say?" "What was that?" Sounds come to me as softly-pitched murmurs, and I suddenly become aware of the glass tube enveloping me. Claustrophobia bites hard, I lash out at my transparent prison in panic.

"He's definitely awake." "...goddamn fools." "Put him down again!" "_What did he say!_"

The last voice.

Lucrecia.

I cannot help but recoil, and I do not know why. The sentence comes again to my lips, and I can do naught but pronounce the unsummoned words.

"You lust for the most horrible of things."

She flinches.

I am glad to see it.

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_...The cog of time slips once again, and the future resolves itself..._

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------__  
_

...it is the beach again. It is Lucrecia.

We walk together.

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

She cannot help but still be perfect. Even after everything. She walked along the beach and the sand took her unto itself, cushioning her, supporting her, loving her. Everything loved her. Loved her, and...

"You only had to ask."

"I know."

"Why didn't you?"

She smiled, and certainly all of desolation smiled with her.

We continued to walk.

"You enjoy this. You enjoy the...perversion."

"Perversion? Or...evolution?"

"You're turning me into a monster!"

_"I'M TURNING YOU INTO A GOD!"_

She stands before me, feet squared, arms outstretched, framed by moonlight. She stares at me with undisguised, horrific lust and I can no longer bear the burden of consciousness; darkness descends mercifully upon me. There is only so much truth a monster can take.

...loved her, and...and...

...Lucrecia...

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

I opened my eyes.

_...Lucrecia..._

All scattered recollections of my dream were banished as I saw the blue paper, slipped neatly under the door. I collected it, and read:

_Special Agent Valentine_

_Assigned to Dr. Simon Hojo_

_Report immediately._

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_

...Read? Review?


	8. Episode 6

The Valentine Chronicles

Episode 6 - North

I had adopted a rather dangerous habit.

As a rule, raw Turk recruits were encouraged to chew a certain amount of gunpowder as part of their regimen. It focused us, deluded us, glorified the killing. It addicted us to death, and to the many ways of bringing it about.

Relapses were fairly common.

I'd been working for Hojo around three months, at this point. Reclassified as a J-level agent, whatever that meant, I'd run a series of odd jobs around the frozen northern continent. It was there, shivering in the flimsy field tents in below freezing weather, that I'd taken to the powder again. It numbed the senses, exposing one instead to a giant cacophony of hallucinated realities. All of them were vicious, and all of them were glorious. Shrouded in these dim visions of magnificent carnage, I scarcely noticed the jagged wind piercing my flesh. I accepted it unto myself, as glad payment for the visions I'd been granted by the powder.

It was here, I believe, that time first began to blur for me. Days would melt into each other, a single night would stretch on and on and suddenly six months would have passed, and I'm at a ceremony, honoring my induction as a J-Classified Special Agent. I gaze, bewildered, at my various so-called "friends, colleagues, and admirers" as Dr. Simon Hojo proudly tells of my heroic service on the northern continent.

I accept the handshake of a starry-eyed young man, who tells me his great ambition in life is to become my partner.

But this is simply my condition, not my story. I write these accounts largely for myself; to record and remember my humanity, even in the face of increasing doubt. I will write it now, to remind myself. I am Vincent Valentine, and I am a human being.

I have been sent back to the north. I am to meet the true leader of the program. Professor Gast.

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My chopper sets down lightly on a bleak, snow-covered rise. Barely visible through the falling snow are the steadily blinking lights that represent Shinra Corporation Holding No. 33. Four bluesuits escort me through the double-barred main gate and into the underground facility. The guards are extremely well armed; K42's, concussion grenades, vibroblades. I nod appreciatively at one guard's weaponry and get a furtive thumbs up in return…crack troops or not, these were just _kids_.

A time may come to make use of that information.

I'm ushered into an office, pushed gently into a chair. Across from me stands an old man, gaunt but by no means crippled. He looks at me and I se deep, calculated intelligence in his eyes.

"I am Professor Gast, Agent Valentine. Thank you for joining me."

He tells me about the Jenova Project.

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_At this point in the story, I find it easiest to give you my journal entries, penned hastily over these four months. As my time for writing these accounts grows perilously short, I find it best to cut corners whenever possible._

_Sept 12_

I'm writing this stuff from my pup tent, pitched under the naked beauty of the stars over these snow-blown plains. My destination has at long last been revealed to me; the Northern Crater, perpetual spawn of story and legend. My orders are: secure a small cave on the south side of a ridge, deep down inside the crater itself. I am to hold the cave until reinforcement.

Although I requested only my standard issue, Shinra has nevertheless gifted me with some interesting little toys. Two shining handguns, large-calibur and all in black, have been requisitioned for me from the latest in Shinra labs on level 38. The bullets, I'm told, are armor-piercing and extremely high velocity.

It so, so goddamned cold out here. I will probably need the powder tonight.

_Sept 14_

Camped out on a high rise, just overlooking the target cave. Eight hours standard march should do it.

Tried the guns out for the first time today. I'd tracked a herd of bison and finally had a clear shot at one, crouched in some underbrush. He ambled by and I put a bullet in his brain - accept he didn't just go down, his head exploded into an expanding sphere of buffalo brain. These guns…what are they expecting me to run into?

Will definitely need the powder again tonight.

**Sept 14**

_They tried to take me tonight._

_Four in total, two on each side. They approach me cautiously - almost fearfully. Their assault rifles are trained on me but I can tell they aren't prepared to fire, aren't _ready _to fire. These aren't soldiers, these are…idealists._

_Their leader comes over and pokes me sharply with his rifle. I roll over, feign a sleepy awakening and focus blearily on the soldier. I mime shock. Hands go up; everthing utterly expected, utterly classic._

_He actually turns away from me as he fumbles for his handcuffs. The three others exchange nervous grins - We did it, their faces say. We took him down! If only they knew._

_My hands, which had been gently acquiring leverage this whole time, catapult me off my back. I lock my legs together and focus my attack, and the leader screams in agony as I shatter his kneecap. I rebound, roll backwards, and slam my elbow into a panicking second guard. As he keels, his intestines shattered, I grab his rifle and roll sideways just as the remaining two guards open fire. I brace along one knee and fire, two three-bullet bursts. The guards fall._

_It was the powder that saved me, of course. I will take more tomorrow._

_Sept 15 (morning)_

I was afraid of this.

I knew I shouldn't have gone back to that devilish powder. I tell myself I'm past its effects, I'm no longer addicted…dammit! You have to understand, all of that nonsense about getting attacked in the night, four mercs with assault rifles…it's bullshit! I didn't wake up surrounded by bodies, I don't have blood on me…it's just the powder, it makes you see things, it makes you _believe_ things.

I've decided to throw all my spare gunpowder out, as a precaution. I'll have to make due with my current payload.

I'm about two hours out from the cave. I'll confirm my arrival shortly.

_Sept 15 (evening)_

Made it. I'm now stationed in the tent, and the cave mercifully cuts off most of the wind. It's a weird place, even for something J-related - green lights pulse out of cracks in the rock, different emerald veins spider webbing towards a central core. The longer you're in there, the more your head aches.

I'm trying to cook my dinner, but for some reason I can't get a fire started in the cave…the walls just suck the life out of things. Could really do with some way to keep warm. But I'll have to do without.

I'm going to bed.

**Sept 15**

_They'll come for me tonight, of course. They think after last night I'll be tired. Unwary. Just wait 'til they come._

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_Sept 16_

I have awoken to find myself in a graveyard. No fewer than eleven corpses surrounded me, nearly all obliterated by some weapon which rivals an anti-aircraft gun.

I have since checked my ammo count. Twelve cartridges have been fired. I can no longer deny what is happening to me.

I do not think I will write anymore.

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_This marks the end of my unfortunately short-lived journal. I resume my initial narrative:_

My "reinforcements" did indeed come for me, three days later.

It came in the form of a Dr. Simon Hojo, who examined the cave and declared it the cornerstone for a new age of mankind.

It also came in the form of Lucrecia, my sweet Lucrecia, who gazed at that alien green illumination with undisguised desire. Its emerald light twinkled fiercely at her and was answered by the fire in her eyes. I have often thought, in looking back, that she never looked as beautiful as she did at that moment.


End file.
